


Before

by notmadderred



Series: The Foundation [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:08:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23759617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmadderred/pseuds/notmadderred
Summary: Before their time at The Foundation began, the Reds and Blues were attempting to survive on their own.Everyone has a little bit of chaos. They seem to have more than most, if the paths of death and destruction are any indication.
Series: The Foundation [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711639
Comments: 29
Kudos: 40





	1. Grif

Today was Kai’s birthday.

He’d stayed up late the night before, cursing and muttering insults as he put together a small flower crown for her. It was his tradition every year to make an attempt. This year had to be good, seeing as he wouldn’t be there.

His own fucking fault.

So he spent more time than strictly necessary on a stupid fucking flower crown. It took effort and was therefore a fucking pain, but this was Kai. He’d do anything for her.

‘Anything’ meant a lot of things these days.

For now, it meant functioning on little-to-no sleep.

Still, he made the drive okay. Driving was always easy, and driving on little sleep was a well-worn practice of his.

“Jav!” he called as he stepped inside. The place was old, practically falling apart. Its isolated location in the woods probably didn't aid this factor, especially since it rarely saw any visitors these days. “I’m here. The fuck we doing now?”

Jav emerged from the living room to greet him with his usual frown. “You’re late.”

Grif lifted a brow. “Dude, it’s me. You’ve gotta accept the inevitability of me being late by now.”

Jav’s face twitched. Then he rolled his eyes. “Fuck you, Grif. Everyone’s waiting for you. C’mon.”

Grif followed him in, taking in the five others with a shallow nod. Three of the faces were familiar -- Raul, Jonny, and Kevin. The two others didn't even bother acknowledging his entry.

“Right,” said Jav, clapping his hands together. “Our last hit was a bust, so we gotta make this one count.” He straightened. “Grif, these two are Ben and Billie. Anyway--”

“That’s Grif?” said Ben, lifting a brow. “I didn't expect him to be--”

“Don’t bother finishing that sentence,” Grif interjected. “Just get on with it.”

Jav’s lips quirked up in a half-smile. “Anyway, today we’re going to be hitting Albus Tucker’s place. It--”

“Wait a fucking second,” said Jonny, crossing his arms. “The rich fucker? Horse racing guy? Wears a spectacle like a fucking asshole?”

Jav nodded.

“Hell no. He’s got security like no fucking other, and rumor says he has a fucking Nonhuman under lock and key -- there’s no way we’d be able to rob them without getting caught.”

Grif withheld a wince. He hated this -- hated living like this. But with his history, and Mom and Kai’s inconsistent schedules, he hadn’t been able to hold down a single job.

So he helped Jav pull off minor heists. Ones that wouldn’t be noted by Supers, ideally.

Burgling the Tuckers sounded like a great fucking way to get noticed. “As much as I hate agreeing with Jonny,” he drawled, “this sounds a bit more dangerous than we’re used to.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Ben said, standing up. “Don’t pussy out on us. Billie and I have pulled off shit like this before, easy. It’s what we do. We just need more hands for this job. _And_ we’re willing to split it even.”

Grif had a bad feeling about this.

In all honesty, he wanted to go home. Go see how Kai was doing on her birthday, make sure Mom wasn’t getting drunk again. 

“Yeah, but I don’t trust people I don’t know.” Grif cocked his head. “For all I know, you’ll leave us out to dry and run away with the winnings. I’m not that big of a fan of taking chances, to be honest.”

Something behind Ben’s eyes shifted, and Grif found himself wanting to take a step back, wanting to get away. “Fuck off, then,” said Ben. “I don’t have to deal with a bitch like you.”

“Ben--” said Jav, but Grif was already stepping forward, defying his instincts. 

“This isn’t your fucking group. We don’t even know you. You think you can just replace Al--”

“Of course we fucking can!” Ben shouted back, tone sounding incredulous. “Billie and I are your best chance to get outta the mess you’re in! That’s why Jav asked us to help you assholes out!”

Grif shook his head. “And where the fuck did he find you? Craigslist?”

“Grif, seriously,” said Jav. “Don’t push it. They know what they’re doing.”

“And how the fuck do you know that?” Grif said. He didn't know why he was so on edge, but hey -- sometimes, you have to trust your instincts. And right now, his instincts were building within him, reverberating across his chest. “Al just died a fucking _week_ ago. Bane tried to fuck us over, and now you think recruiting strangers is the best fucking course of--”

“You think I don’t know that? I started this fucking group -- I’m the reason you can still take care of your slut of a sister, and--”

Ice dug under his skin in glass. “Don’t you fucking dare talk about Kai like that.”

Jav narrowed his eyes. “You don’t tell me what to do. And don’t act like you don’t know it. I helped you out of pity. But Kai’s just like your bitch of a mom, and--”

Thunder burned across him, arced up his body in a single, rapid movement. 

For a second, everything felt like it was crushing him, the weight of gravity carrying against him in the voices of those around him, in his own voice yelling in his sister’s defense.

And then he saw the waves tear Jav apart.

Blood and brain matter splattered across his face, a piece of bone hitting him in the side.

He gasped, and the avalanche tore through everyone else, every _thing_ else.

And then it was over.

The sound waves were still coursing through Grif, running along his skin like needles.

He exhaled, and it stopped.

He breathed in, and the world popped, birds chirping frantically, crashing remains of the house that had been blown hundreds of yards away, everything destroyed, everything now making sounds of destruction as he released.

Grif stood there.

Everyone was…

Everyone was dead.

Everyone but him.

He had…

He’d killed them. Him. 

Grif blinked.

His body was numb. He knew what was sprayed against him, what his body was covered in, but he couldn’t feel it.

Oh, God. Oh, _God_.

His eyes shifted.

It… it almost looked like he’d torn the world apart.

The ground, beginning just in front of him, was split in two; a long, narrow fissure running across the Earth.

He couldn’t think.

He couldn’t think.

He couldn’t--

Grif turned around.

He’d done this.

He’d killed people.

He’d ripped apart the Earth.

He’d lived.

He deserved to die.

Grif started walking robotically back to his car.

He was a murderer.

Why was he alive why had he lived why had this happened what was the point of it all was there even a point Jav had been alive and now he was covering Grif’s face and body and the others had just been sitting there not even doing anything but Grif had killed them too like collateral damage in a battle neither he nor Jav had known was waging and those universes just went lights out, infinities gone within milliseconds like nothing had been there in the first place and Grif didn't know Raul and Jonny and Kevin and Ben and Billie’s last names and didn't know if he should mourn them and if he should find their graves and pay respects because he was their killer and he hadn’t meant to and they hadn’t expected it they were just there just like Javier Sanchez who he’d known for 12 years who was now dead because of him who didn't get a chance to explain his anger to explain why he said those things why today of all days he was taking a chance and

Grif stepped into the car.

He grabbed an old towel from the back seat and began rubbing down his face.

He was a murderer.

He deserved to die.

If he died, what would happen to Mom? To Kai? Where would they go; what would they do?

He checked his mirror. His face was ashy, numb. He wiped away the last of the blood. Did what he could with his hair.

Then Grif turned on the ignition and began driving.

Kai could never know. He had to protect her.

She was all that mattered now. 

There was nothing left of him worth saving, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever pet an opposum? Yeah, me neither, but I totally should. I pet a dead bird once, and I’ve seen quite a few dead opposums that looked ripe for petting but then I didn't pet them because it’s “gross” and “socially unacceptable.” Is saying “opposums” pretentious? I’ll call them possums from now on. Possums are actually all really good animals and usually don’t have rabies. If you see one, pet it. Adopt it. Name it Socks. Ask your dad not to run over it with his car like he accidentally did with your lizard, Unnamed, goddammit Unnamed you will forever be in my memory I’m so sorry you had to go like that the crunch was so horrible I hear it in my darkest dreams and can’t


	2. Kai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was, of course, on Kaikaina Grif’s birthday when her life went to shit.

It was, of course, on Kaikaina Grif’s birthday when her life went to shit.

Dex wasn’t there. Not from lack of trying -- he couldn’t afford to miss another day of work ever since he took off the week to help her through a nasty bout of the flu. She told him to go with a roll of the eyes and a punch to the shoulder followed by a sarcastic but heartfelt, “I love you, bro -- I get it.”

He still left her with a handcrafted headband for when she woke up, interwoven with various flowers. The knots were delicately made, if not a tad untidy. It was an improvement from his attempt last year, which fell apart the moment she tried to put it on. This time, it rested atop her head like a crown.

But Dex’s absence meant she was alone at home with Mom and Dad.

“Mom,” she said, her tone pleading in a way she hated, a way she always promised herself she’d never use the second she left Mom for good, “put it down. Please.”

Her mom was swaying, features twisted in anger as she stared at her husband. “It’s just fuck-all with you, huh?” She lifted her hand, pointing the end of the bottle at him. “Screwin’ around and fucking things up every time you want--”

“As if you can talk, you fucking whore,” he snapped back, lips twisted in a snarl. “We both know about Walker, and now we gotta--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mom snapped.

Kai’s chest was heaving as she attempted to calm herself down, stop the shaking in her muscles. Where was her confident edge with them; the routines that had so many heads turning her way and asking for some time alone? The easy swagger of her hips, the no-shits-given attitude? “Please,” she repeated. It came out a whisper, barely pressing past her lips. Not again. Not now. Not while Dex wasn’t here. “Can we not fight today?”

Mom whipped around to face her. “If you don’t like it, you can fucking leave. You know that? Run off, I don’t give a shit. We didn't even want you anyway. You know that?”

This was Mom’s routine. She got drunk. She picked fights. She told Kai she was unwanted.

It hurt because it was true. It hurt because this routine wasn’t one that would change.

But Dad was here. Dad had shown up for her fucking birthday, which he finally fucking remembered. He didn't come here for her, no. He never did.

“I should’ve fuckin’ strangled you in your crib. It would have saved us from the fucking headaches. You fucking--” Mom shook her head, “ungrateful bitch.”

She should leave. Kai knew this. Leave and never look back. She’d run before, run from partner to partner’s bed, but she always came home. She always found herself flying back to Dex, back to her brother, back to the only real family she had.

He refused to leave. She hated him for it. He hated himself for it.

But Mom nearly killed herself every day. Dex couldn’t live with the guilt of leaving her to die, leaving her alone, helpless.

At least Kai could take care of herself.

But now, she was staying. Her. As he worked a job to get money Mom would blow away on booze. As he worked to feed her -- feed _them_.

Kai didn't know what Mom would do if left alone with Dad. She didn't know what Dad would do if left alone with Mom. Too many possibilities, too many unfurling variables that would only lead to a pissed-off Dex who wouldn’t fucking forgive her for leaving them, for letting them kill each other.

“I just came to wish my daughter a happy birthday,” Dad was saying in a sneer. “Not to get hounded on by you, ya fuckin’ lunatic--”

“Oh, _I’m_ the lunatic? Me? ‘Cause I don’t remember getting caught breaking and entering into the house of a fucking _Super_ \--”

“Stop!” Kai said, raising her voice louder. “I _fucking_ mean it!”

They looked at her then, both at varying levels of anger and disappointment.

Something hot trailed down her face.

She pushed her hair back and tried to stand taller, raise herself above the hurt, above the years of pain broiling within her. “Dad, you need to leave.”

He scoffed and lifted his brows. “So I’m the bad guy -- is that it? All the blame comes back to me.”

She swallowed. Clenched her fists. “That’s not what I--”

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry for stopping by to wish you a happy birthday. It’s my fault Angie’s drinkin’ again and messing everything up. Happy now?”

“Dad, I--”

Dad rolled his eyes. “Don’t bother with the excuses.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” Mom said, slamming her bottle onto the table. “You didn't come here for Kai -- you just wanted to fuckin’-- to fuckin’--”

“To _what_? You wanna get that out?”

Anxiety spit against her throat in a burst. “Guys, please. We just need to--”

“Do I need to tell you to shut your fuckin’ mouth again?” Dad said. “Really? Fuck-- if your brother was here, he would’ve made you shut u--”

In a snap, the fear turned into anger, rising in a wave within her chest. “Don’t act like you know him,” she said, her tone like fire. She felt the ashes of resentment lifting in her lungs and swallowed them down like spit. “He was never your fucking son, Dad. You don’t know jack-shit about either of us.”

Dad lifted his chin. He looked like he was carved from stone, unwavering, ungiving. “I’d watch that tone, Kaikaina.” His expression hardened further. “Unless you want to lose that tongue of yours.”

Her hands trembled. “Y- you don’t get to threaten me.” Her neck ached, holding back that tide of ferocity. She needed to stay calm. Follow Dex’s example. “Now _leave_.”

He took two steps closer to her. Leaned forward. “No.”

Mom released a heavy sigh. “For fuck’s sake. Just get the fuck out.”

Relief pulsed through Kai. Mom agreeing didn't mean much, but perhaps it would help--

In a beat, the back of Dad’s hand was whipping across Mom’s cheek.

In the next, Mom howled in anger, scrambling for her bottle as her other hand clutched at her face. As soon as she reached it, she smashed it against the edge of the counter and raised the shattered remains over her head like a knife.

That moment, everything changed.

Dad bent his knees as if readying for an attack.

Mom started to bring the bottle down.

From nowhere, an earthquake erupted through the house, ripping across the center of the kitchen and throwing cabinet doors open, shattering the lights, dropping the chairs.

Kai felt it shatter her bones, triggering something within her.

Her emotions rose inside her, finally bubbling to the surface, something incomprehensible, something like--

On instinct, she threw out her arms, palms parallel to her body. Her neck drew back, hair flying behind her like a halo.

The milliseconds stretched.

She could feel every muscle working, feel her heart rest from one pump to the next. 

Flames burned within her. The ash from her lungs ignited. Electricity zapped across her veins, and she felt _alive_ , and--

And the blasts exploded from her palms.

All she saw was light -- a pure, radiant white engulfing the whole of her vision.

Then, she heard it. The tumultuous _BOOM!_ deafened her, shattering everything around her. It was an atom bomb, an epicenter, _everything_ so wrong and right in one moment.

Just like that, it was over.

Kai couldn’t tell if it was minutes, hours. She stood in silence, frozen, confused, watching as the smoke and dust cleared, eyeing the flames outlining the remnants of home.

Remnants because…

She blinked. Tilted her head.

Suddenly, she could see again.

Still, it was silent.

Kai took a breath.

The smell hit her, roasting meat, burning.

Everything was in wreckage.

“Mom? Dad?”

She couldn’t look. She couldn’t…

She had to.

Kai looked down. 

Bile rose up her throat.

She bent over and heaved.

No. No this wasn’t this couldn’t nothing should’ve this wasn’t _real_ it couldn’t be it had to be fucking drugs she couldn’t have done this fuck _fuck_ it wasn’t her this _wasn’t her_ she hadn’t done this she hadn’t hadn’t couldn’t didn't

She didn't kill her parents.

She hadn’t blown them to pieces.

She hadn’t meant to kill them, fry them, obliterate them until nothing was left.

Kai kept retching until her stomach was empty.

This wasn’t-- this couldn’t--

Something grabbed her.

Kai fell back, fell into the rubble, fell into death and put her hands in front of her face because she _didn't mean to this wasn’t her fault please don’t--_

“Kai,” said Dex. “Kai, come on. Let’s go. Take my hand, okay?”

She looked up and finally saw him. The flower crown slipped from her head.

He looked ashen, pale, uneasy. His extended hand was shaking, just like hers had been not long before.

“I-- I didn't-- there was a- a fucking earthquake and--”

He winced. Closed his eyes. Something was wrong; she could always tell when something was wrong with him but it was probably because their parents were dead and they were still here and he didn't know what to think or what to do because two people were dead and-- “Take my hand, Kai.”

She tried to breathe.

She couldn’t think straight, not yet.

Kai grabbed her brother’s hand.

Perhaps there was nothing right in the world, but she had Dex. Right now…

Right now, that was everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you believe in ghosts? Heh, same. Bullshit, them ghosts, amirite? Ghosts aren’t real. That wouldn’t make sense. I mean, I can see ghosts. There’s one reading over my shoulder right now. There’s also one waving at me from behind your back. Anyway, yeah, ghosts aren’t real. But if they were, they’d say hi.


	3. Bullshot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t quite evening yet, the sun slipping past the skyline and spraying a series of colors across the cars below. It was beautiful, really, but not exactly something that needed focusing on.
> 
> He looked back to the entrance and twisted a butter knife between his fingers, thumbing the dull edge of it. 
> 
> There.

Bullshot loved being a vigilante.

His palms and soles were flat against the Mayer building. He was only two stories up, wanting to stick fairly close to the ground for this. His body was shrouded in shadows, aided by his black suit and mask. Not many Supers could spot him, let alone civilians.

So Bullshot watched. Waited.

His adhesion ability made waiting here as easy as lying in a hammock. Minus the whole spying-on-people-below-him ordeal. 

Still, it was relaxing. He liked slipping into the dark corners of populated areas, lingering like a bug on the wall, unnoticed.

It wasn’t quite evening yet, the sun slipping past the skyline and spraying a series of colors across the cars below. It was beautiful, really, but not exactly something that needed focusing on.

He looked back to the entrance and twisted a butter knife between his fingers, thumbing the dull edge of it. 

There.

Thomas Mayer was walking in, his own personal Nonhuman (the lapels on his suit painting him as such) bodyguard trailing just behind him as human bodyguards circled him directly.

A giggle nearly escaped him. You think they’d learn, after all this time -- look out from above. Bullshot was gaining some notoriety at this point, so a bit of challenge or preemptive thinking would be appreciated.

The Nonhuman looked right up at him.

Oh, fuck.

Perhaps wishful thinking wasn’t the best course of action.

Bullshot had no idea what the Nonhuman’s ability -- or abilities -- were, so it would be best to act fast.

Without a thought, he threw the knife.

With his second ability on accuracy, missing wasn’t an option. He never missed.

Other people dodging or protecting each other could pose a problem, but he’d moved too quickly.

The butter knife lodged in Mayer’s eye.

He was dead before he hit the floor.

People started screaming.

The Nonhuman was yelling, pointing. The bodyguards looked where he was directing and pulled out their guns.

A small, “Well, fuck,” escaped him, and he began scrambling along the side of the building, running with his hands and feet like some ape to get away.

Shots rang out around him, ricocheting off the bulletproof glass.

Supers would show up any second now. With his luck, he’d get someone like Texas on his ass, and that certainly wouldn’t be ideal.

A bullet ripped through his calf.

He yelped, a high-pitched, surprised sound, before continuing on, wincing and biting his tongue. He _could_ just kill the bodyguards too, but he doubted they were as corrupt as the man they were protecting. Sure, he killed people, but he had _standards_. 

So instead, he grabbed another butter knife from the belt at his waist and gave it a sharp backward toss, not even bothering to look as it hit the mark. A knife to the knee wouldn’t kill him, but it’d definitely do some damage.

Right now, getting away was his number one priority. 

“Would it _kill_ you to let me go easy, just this once?” he called over his shoulder. His voice still had pain laced in every syllable. Fuck -- it’d been a while since he’d been shot. Stabbings were one thing, but bullets? Those were absolute hell.

“Bullshot!” came a shout from below.

The bullets ceased firing. 

He stopped.

A respite wouldn’t hurt, let alone a respite from running on a wounded leg. He looked over. “Oh, come on,” he said, forcing a grin. The woman standing there was definitely a Super, based on the elaborate teal outfit hugging her body nicely. The mask, which exposed an annoyed, stubborn scowl, stretched to the edge of her hairline. A burst of red hair caught in a ponytail was just above it. She had to be new. “I wouldn’t be caught _dead_ in that color.”

The scowl deepened. “I’d recommend surrendering now. Making me chase after you will just piss me off.”

The no-nonsense type. A bit like Texas.

But still, having this Super try to chase after him would be better than the alternative.

He leaped from the Mayer building to the one over five yards away.

It was a stretch -- a risky one.

He landed against the wall, less than a story high. The hit was jarring, and Bullshot found himself once again thankful for his ability to stick.

His left hand alone kept him against the wall.

He just really hoped this Super’s ability wasn’t flying.

Bullshot turned to look down.

She was sprinting -- _fast_. She covered the distance in less than two seconds before planting her left foot and jumping.

And, boy, could she jump.

Before he could react, she’d grabbed the ankle of his injured leg.

She obviously couldn’t fly, and was instead left hanging, all her weight pulled against him as she dropped her other hand and let her legs hang limp.

At this height, the fall could break her legs.

She didn't seem to mind.

He definitely did.

He could feel his wound stretching, the pain spreading like fire. Something in his leg felt like it snapped, and his left shoulder popped.

The two dropped a couple of inches as it fell from its socket.

He muffled a scream -- barely stopped himself from instinctively trying to pull his hand from the wall.

“Drop it!” the woman snarled.

“Fuck off!” he snarled right back, the pretense of a game falling faster than he’d usually let on. “I’m not even doing anything wrong! I just kill the assholes who deserve it -- none of the half-assed shit you Supers pull.”

The woman moved her other hand so it was gripping his ankle as well. “What you’re doing is wrong. You’re as much of a criminal as the people you kill. Besides, Supers take down corrupt Nonhumans -- rarely the humans. Police exist for a reason.” Her hold tightened. “Except you kill them, too.”

“Only the corrupt,” he said. It was practically a mantra, at this point. Take down the bad, the ones who fucked over everyday people. The people Supers didn't always have time to save. 

He respected the Supers, really. 

It was just that their methods didn't exactly align.

The woman used her core strength to lift her body and drop all her weight again in an attempt to dislodge his hold.

Joke was on her. Nobody knew about his adhesive ability -- he’d led the public to believe the grip was because of the gloves he wore.

Bullshot had watched the news reports, listened to the speculation. Most people thought he was human, just… skilled. A testament that humans truly could take on Nonhumans, seeing as he’d evaded capture from Supers for so long.

To be fair, it was always Supers with less useful powers or new, inexperienced ones giving him the chase. The Foundation and the Supers it housed didn't care _that_ much about him.

He was guessing this was one of the inexperienced ones.

Oddly enough, this was also the closest he’d had in a long time.

“Mayer wasn’t corrupt,” she growled. “His corporate partner was. I looked into it myself. You didn't dig deep enough.”

That was enough to make him frown. It couldn’t be true. He always dug deep enough. Mayer was corrupt. “The hell are you talking about?”

She pulled again, to no avail. She groaned, clearly annoyed. “Sime Industry was using him. Thomas was living in fucking hell trying to get out of that mess. Now Sime is just--”

“Sime is a small shell company,” he said, eyes glancing down for a half-second. She couldn’t be right. He and Doc had looked into it. Sime was nothing. Nothing compared to the likes of Mayer.

“And you’re a superhero.” She scoffed. “The biggest problems hide under small names. You have no idea what it was you were stumbling into, and now others are gonna have to clean up the mess.”

“Bull,” he said. He kicked his injured leg once, ignoring once more the wave of hurt that pulled through him. “Besides, you wouldn’t know. Like you said, those are the kinds of things police look into. Not Supers.”

“Not the ones you know of.”

Something about that statement rang in surety, rang true.

Something cold settled in his stomach.

Had he…

There was a chance he’d just murdered someone innocent. 

Perhaps she was wrong, but if there was even a chance-- if there was the possibility that he’d been wrong… 

If he was questioning himself now, that definitely meant he hadn’t dug deep enough. “You’re wrong,” he said, the accusation hollow.

“Let go of the building, Bullshot.”

He bit down on his lip.

He needed to talk to Doc.

He needed to talk to _someone_ , someone who didn't look at him and automatically saw a villain. Someone who could be stable when he wasn’t.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“The hell does--”

“Please,” he added.

His leg pulled out slightly. Bullshot suspected she’d planted her feet against the building. “Carolina.”

“Carolina. Let me go, or I’ll kill you just like I killed Mayer.”

There were flashes from below. Reporters. Took them long enough.

“We both know you would never kill a Su--”

He used that second of distraction to grab another knife and throw it into her wrist.

It was enough.

Carolina’s grip dropped, and she fell.

He clambered up the building as quickly as he physically could before leaping to the next, then the next, then the next until he was finally back in the slums.

Bullshot was gasping, both from exertion and pain by the time he made it back.

Carolina had been quick, probably fast and smart enough to have followed his trail if the fall hadn’t done her too much damage.

Something told him she hadn’t done that.

“Doc!” he yelled as soon as he stumbled inside. “D-Doc, where--”

Doc jogged into view, brown eyes wide and concerned. “I’m here, I’m here. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

He ripped off the black mask, probably revealing a mess of blond hair splayed out on the top of his head. “I…” He glanced around, feeling suddenly paranoid. “You… Thomas Mayer.”

Doc’s eyes narrowed slightly. He reached forward and grabbed his wrist. “Yeah? The guy we were going to look into a bit more tonight. Him?”

Fuck -- now he felt even more sick. Still, he nodded.

Doc looked almost relieved. “Yeah, I think I just saw the same thing. Don’t worry, I didn't do anything drastic,” he added hastily. “But yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s innocent. I saw something weird in the--”

“I killed him,” he said. His voice felt miles away. “I…”

His head was light, suddenly full of cotton.

He blinked.

Then he was collapsing.

Doc’s hands rushed out to hold him, catch him before his head hit the floor. He was saying something, but the words weren’t coming in clear.

Moments later, his mind faded to darkness.

\----------

When Bullshot woke up, his leg was wrapped in bandages. It still hurt, but the pain was closer to an ache at this point.

Then the day’s events came to him in a rush. 

He clawed his way to his feet, heart once again going rapid. Shit. He’d killed someone who…

Someone who had likely been innocent. A pawn.

He looked around, raising a hand to the back of his head. “Doc? Are you--?”

His eyes snagged on a note taped to the front door.

He limped to it, grabbing it, devouring it with his eyes until the words could make some sense.

_Recent events have made me think over quite a bit._

_I’ve decided that aiding you in this life isn’t something I want to continue. I’ve never been interested in hurting people, but this was perhaps the event I needed to really open my eyes as to what this meant._

_I’m sorry._

_I’ll patch up whoever needs it, yourself included. If you need me, you know where to find me. But please, only come when you’re injured. I can’t keep living like this._

_Goodbye,  
DuFresne_

He dropped the note.

“What?” he said to himself, the word leaving as a whisper.

Doc was leaving?

They’d been working for this since…

He crumpled the paper in his fist. Grabbed the pencil off the table and threw it at the opposite wall, directly into a photograph of his own face. His arm was slung around Doc’s shoulders. It was -- what? Three years ago?

And then he killed someone.

Doc had never liked his methods.

This was what it took to find out why.

One mistake.

He hadn’t waited long enough, hadn’t talked it through with Doc and now…

Now he was a murderer.

A cold-blooded killer.

Perhaps Doc should have run away long ago.

Bullshot let the note fall from his grasp.

Maybe Carolina was onto something.

Maybe Doc was, too.

He took a deep breath.

He could survive this. It wasn’t the end of the world.

Doc was gone. His ability to trust his own judgment was gone. But he could reinvent himself, just as he’d done in becoming Bullshot. This wasn’t much different.

(It was worlds different, he knew.)

Okay.

Easy enough.

His life had done another 180, and he’d survive.

Okay.

Just like before.

Establish some rough perimeters, then live in a box that both loosely and entirely followed those perimeters.

So. No killing.

Easy enough to think, but he’d been lecturing Carolina on that shit not long ago. Fuck, he was going to become like--

Okay, perhaps also limit cursing.

He needed a new persona. Bullshot was effective, stuck to shadows, lived in waiting, made occasional snide remarks and quips about death that weren’t exactly tasteful. His body was hidden, he was an Unknown in society. People constantly debated whether he was good or bad, human or Nonhuman. He was a liar, a petty thief, something constantly too sharp and too dangerous.

He rubbed at his shoulder. It seemed Doc had popped it back into place.

Okay.

Reinvent himself.

Just turn those traits around. Maybe use his actual first name, adopt a last one that was nonthreatening. Come across more open, honest, exposed.

Baby steps.

Franklin stumbled right back out the door and glared into the sunlight.

Baby steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An old dude once called me a whore to my face. This isn’t exactly a novel experience for roughly 51% of the world’s population, but it was kinda hilarious in the context that I was telling a cultish heretical evangelical Christian who doesn’t accurately represent many modern (read: liberal and actually woke and, I dunno, decent?) Christian values but rather government moral theology that Jesus totes coulda been gay. His name is Brother Jed. Was? I think he’s still alive. He had his own wikipedia page and was almost featured in a Netflix show according to university rumors. Getting called a whore by him was a rite of passage. “Oh, he called you a whore? He called me that last semester.” “He uses whore now? He was saying ‘sluts’ last year.” “Shit, he was here yesterday? I missed the show. Last time we got him to sing ‘It’s Okay to Be Gay.’”


	4. Sarge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pulled a metal pipe out from the underbelly of the vehicle. It clanged against the ground, the sharp sound juxtaposing the low buzz his garage normally offered as background noise. Sarge took a breath. Rolled out.

_“They have us outnumbered! There’s no fucking way we’d get out of there ali--”_

_“Shut it, soldier! You heard the colonel -- reinforcements are coming!” Sarge let the shotgun drop against his shoulder as he lifted his chin at Private Powers. “We just gotta meet ‘em at the line of confrontation right there. It ain’t rocket science, boy!”_

_“No fucking shit, Sarge!” Powers stepped forward, his eyes wide, desperate. He was young. No lines on his forehead, nothing. Quite the reminder of Sarge’s own graying state -- but graying only meant more years and more wisdom under his belt! “We meet the enemy there, and we die. It’s that easy! Why can’t you see that?”_

_He sniffed. “If we die, we die for the war! I can’t think of a greater cause to dedicate yourself to. So we march!”_

He pulled a metal pipe out from the underbelly of the vehicle. It clanged against the ground, the sharp sound juxtaposing the low buzz his garage normally offered as background noise. Sarge took a breath. Rolled out.

_“There’s too fucking many! Fuck!”_

_The pleading in Powers’ voice warped, in those words, between desperation and pain. It was enough to make Sarge shift his head and look._

_Powers was gritting his teeth, hand flat against a wound on his shoulder. He wasn’t looking up, wasn’t paying attention._

_Sarge opened his mouth--_

_A bullet ripped through Powers’ head, the helmet a useless defense._

_This wasn’t the first time Sarge watched someone die._

_It wasn’t the last either -- not the last even in that minute._

_Someone screamed._

_He growled, tried to shake the image of Powers looking at him, begging not to go. He’d been a kid. Those few years of his had too much war in them already, and not enough brain to understand it._

_Sarge reloaded._

_Nobody was meeting them here._

_The scream from earlier was cut off in a fit of blood._

_Sarge spat, leaned over the rock, and fired some rounds._

_In the second he was up, he saw dozens of enemy soldiers._

_One got a round into Sarge’s arm, and another clipped the side of his head._

_He ducked back down._

_Dozens of them._

_He only saw bodies around him._

_His chest was heaving. He swallowed back._

_The pain was nothing. He’d had worse._

_Carelessly, he dug his fingers into his shoulder to grab the bullet. With a grunt of effort, he hooked it and got it out._

_The wound would heal quickly for him. They always did._

_Not like Powers._

_Not like the rest of them._

_Sarge narrowed his eyes. Surely there was someone else left. Of all the people to not die in combat, Sarge couldn’t be one of them._

_But all he saw was bodies._

_Powers flashed behind his eyes once more._

_Something built in his chest. He pushed it down._

_Just him._

_All that was left was him._

_With a guttural yell, he jumped back up, ready to fight once more, ready to die for this war--_

_Hands grabbed his arms and forced them behind him. Something in his forearm snapped. His shotgun was ripped from his grip._

This would be enough.

_“He’s fuckin’ useless -- just keeps talkin’ about dying for the cause, blah blah blah.”_

_“Fuck. Another one of those?”_

_“Yeah! Where the fuck do they keep recruiting those assholes?”_

_They knew Sarge could hear them. He didn't care. He pulled against the restraints once more. He wanted to die in combat, not chained up like some dog._

_“He_ is _Nonhuman, though. Gotta be. No one heals that fast from this kind of torture.”_

_“No shit, Carl. Hey, maybe we can tell Boss? He’d like that, wouldn’t he?”_

_“You think Boss gives a fuck about us? We’re at a useless fucking outpost in the middle of fuck-all that no one goes to unless it’s by accident. Plus, we only have, like, three POWs. No one has reason to give a crap about us.”_

_Sarge pulled again. It was useless, only digging the chains deeper into his wrists. Still, the pain was comforting._

He tossed the pipe into the pile before taking a step back to examine the small hill of supplies, hands square on his hips.

_“Oh, holy shit. There’s a guy in here -- one of ours!”_

_Sarge blearily lifted his head, squinting past the light pooling into his cell. His throat was too dry, too worn out to bark anything out, so he settled for a glare._

_Someone knelt down in front of him. It was a woman, young (like Powers but not Powers) with blonde hair tied back behind her. Her jaw was a hard line as she examined Sarge’s face. He absently wondered how long his beard had grown -- he could spot some gray if he looked down far enough. “Hello, sir. We’re gonna bring you home. Understand?” She smiled, the action small, hesitant. She was new to this._

_He couldn’t reply._

_He could keep blaming it on his throat._

_Sarge nodded, even though his mind was telling him that the war_ was _home._

_The chains were undone._

Tinkering had always been a pastime of his, and while this was more extreme than any barmy idea he’d run with before, he was sure it’d work. He got things done, after all! Even if it would be a first for the scientific community-- not that he paid any mind to what those glasses-wearing nasally scoundrels who wouldn’t know a fight if it hit ‘em with a Molotov had to say.

He could forgo any blueprints or doohickeys that were supposed to make this easier. Sarge preferred to learn in practice, to get his hands dirty.

He grabbed a dead battery from the center, and some other supplies dropped like he’d been playing Jenga. “Let’s begin with you,” he said, testing its weight in his hand. “Startin’ simple.”

He got to work.

\-----

Whether it had taken hours or days, Sarge wasn’t entirely sure. All he knew was that he was covered in the sweet stench of sweat and grime, and his garage hadn’t earned itself another hole in the wall.

That, and he may have been finished.

He clapped out his hands. Soot powdered the floor generously. 

Before him, standing on its own two legs, was a real-as-guns robot.

Sarge had opted to stick to the tactical brown color -- it was perfect for stealth, and aside from his prized red, it was the only color he had available on him. It loosely resembled a human, if that human was covered in armor and had very thin, exposed joints that were made of metal rather than bone. Its face resembled some combination of a robber fly and a gas mask, the wide plates mimicking encased eyes above a slim plate where the mouth would be. The manufactured muscles and tendons in its upper arms and the joints were unshielded seeing as Sarge hadn’t had quite enough materials to finish the job, but for the most part, the robot was covered in protection.

A perfect soldier, really. One that wouldn’t need a healing ability like Sarge’s to survive. 

And one that couldn’t be easily killed in combat.

Sarge swiped the back of his hand against his forehead. “Now just to turn ya o--”

A small red light at the center of its head flashed on. Another red ring formed around it, almost like a loading sign.

Then, “Que carajo.” [What the fuck.]

Sarge frowned. “Sorry, son -- didn't quite catch that!”

The robot’s head twisted sharply, as though it were eyeing him. “¿Qué carajo me acaba de pasar?” [What the actual fuck just happened to me?]

Oh, nuts. Sarge scratched the top of his head. “Looks like I built a Spanish-speakin’ robot! Sorry, no hablo espanolo!”

For a second, the robot just stared.

It took a step forward.

Sarge stood his ground, puffing his chest out slightly.

Then, “¿Me estás diciendo que tú, un anciano senil, me construiste, un robot real, pero ni siquiera entiendes lo que estoy diciendo?” [Are you telling me that you, a senile old man, built me, an actual robot, but you don't even understand what I'm fucking saying?]

The tone was completely even. Sarge took that as a good sign. He laughed and clapped the robot’s shoulder. “That’s exactly right! Say, do you have a name?”

“¿Es esto real?” [Is this real?]

“Hm, sounded like you were--”

“Mi vida es una jodida miseria. Por favor mátame.” [My life is a fucking misery. Please kill me.]

“Guess not!” said Sarge. “That’s all right! I’ll just call you…” He wracked his brain for a Spanish-sounding name. “Lopez!”

“¿Es esto racismo?” [Is this racism?]

“I’m glad you like it!” 

“Puta,” Lopez said, crossing his arms.

“And you have a sense of humor!”

“Por puro rencor, he decidido que nunca buscaré un módulo de habla inglesa.” [Out of pure spite, I have decided that I will never look for an English speech module.]

This was going better than Sarge would’ve ever thought possible.

He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You’ll be able to survive anything, woncha Lopez?”

Lopez idly drummed his fingers on his other arm. The motion was smooth, humanoid. “... Déjame adivinar: tienes TEPT y estás tratando de ignorar tu traumática historia de fondo al crearme, algo que no se puede matar, como si eso compensara toda la muerte que has visto en tu vida demasiado larga.” [Let me guess: you have PTSD and are trying to ignore your traumatic backstory by creating me, a thing that can't be killed, as though that would make up for all the death you've seen in your too-long life.]

That was quite a bit of content there! Poor thing must not have realized Sarge didn't understand him. Still, he may as well reward the effort. “Nicely put, Lopez!”

“¿Dónde está la autodestrucción?” [Where is self-destruct?]

Sarge lifted his chin, meeting Lopez where his eyes would be. “We’re gonna be a great team, you and I!”

The robot watched him once more, unmoving. Sarge was briefly concerned he’d actually shut off until that red ring circled once, and Lopez made a noise that sounded almost like a sigh. Then he outstretched a hand. “Soy Lopez.”

Ah, so he _did_ like that name!

Sarge took that hand -- it had a nice, firm grip -- and shook it. “Name’s Sarge! So, whaddya say to helpin’ me clean up this garage?”

Lopez drew back his hand and, after a slight shake of his head, began plucking spare machines off the floor and putting them in their respective cubbyholes.

Sarge joined in right after. 

It sure looked like he’d accomplished something good today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it obvious the Lopez I was describing was based on a loose image of a fanart I once saw but whose creator I have long since forgotten? No? Well, it is. I’d reproduce the drawing for you, but it would look a bit like a stick figure with finger guns because my artistic specialty is drawing stick figures with finger guns. Don’t ask why. Don’t do it. Okay, I’ll tell you. The reason my artistic specialty is stick figures with finger guns is because I’m


	5. Richard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Haven’t seen you ‘round before,” the man said, examining the card for a few moments. “You new?”
> 
> _“One wrong word can ruin everything for me. Do you understand that?”_
> 
> Richard felt himself burrow into the recesses of his mind, let instinct take over. He chuckled. It didn't sound as forced as it felt. “That obvious?”

Richard knew the general rule of thumb for things like this. His father had drilled the principles into him a long time ago.

Supposedly, the easiest part was walking confidently, or as Sime Sr. put it, “like he owned the place.” This tended to be the most difficult part for him -- Richard wasn’t exactly sure that he fit in _anywhere_ , let alone somewhere that he definitely wasn’t supposed to be.

So he did his best to imitate his father as he strutted inside, steering clear of the regulatory screening site that checked for weapons and the sort. Instead, he went to the front desk.

There was a woman sitting there, blonde and bored.

He swallowed a lump down the back of his throat. He had to keep the pretense. At least he didn't have to worry about facial expressions, seeing as the steampunk-ish metal mask hid his features in their entirety, red hair included.

Wordlessly, he stepped behind a Super -- one he didn't recognize. They, too, had a mask.

Richard examined as the woman barely glanced up, simply taking the card and scanning it before waving them on.

Easy. No need to panic.

He fished out the replica he’d made, quickly taking the analytics he’d used his eye to scan from both that Super’s card and the machine that checked it. In less than a second, he’d embedded the proper programs into the card.

Richard handed it to the woman.

She took it.

Scanned it.

There was a soft beep. As a backup, Richard linked with the scanning machine in order to ensure it gave him a positive review.

Green light.

She handed him the card.

And just like that, he was inside.

His father had made the mission as simple as possible. With a scowl, he’d informed Richard that he couldn’t possibly mess this up despite being as daft as he was -- a damn waste of a cyborg that could have been--

He shook that from his thoughts.

He’d technically just broken into one of the most secure facilities this side of the Sidewinder.

Sure, he’d have to worry about the high-level security that lurked about every corner, but… 

But this was simple. Almost too simple, were it not for the fact that he both could control the technology the Foundation relied so heavily on with his abilities and he’d been enhanced after the accident into becoming a goddamn _cyborg_. 

He continued striding down the corridors. Now that he was inside, it was easy to download a proper map without fear of raising alarm. Richard had to keep up the pretense of confidence as he tried to find the main hub mostly unnoticed. He wasn’t sure if any Supers could read minds, but he definitely hoped not.

His father had already made it very clear how far he was willing to go for this information.

Richard had to retrieve all the data from the main server itself -- it hadn’t been uploaded anywhere that he could access, so doing this remotely was the only option.

Even breaths. Everything was fine. It wasn’t like he was doing something that could put the label “Kill On Sight” over his head or anything. Except that he basically was. Just because his father told him to.

Agent Texas turned into the hallway he was strolling through.

He felt himself tense, every muscle, organic and not, feeling sharp as he tried to remember what he was just telling himself five goddamn seconds ago he was fine there was nothing to worry about Texas wasn’t going to notice anything it was fine fine _fine_ \--

Agent Texas passed him without even a second glance.

Richard didn't sigh with relief. He wanted to. He didn't.

He continued to follow the blueprints to a T, glad that they were so precise. Seriously, they really needed to up their security, at least on the cyber front. Richard was fairly certain he was the only tech Nonhuman so far, but times were changing. The Foundation had to change with it.

This would definitely end up being a very rude awakening for them.

He passed too many people. Too many chances. 

Every metal hall looked similar. Every window was secure, too basic in composition for him to have a technological advantage over them. 

His father would want this done faster. Speed wasn’t exactly important -- well, not _yet_ \-- but it didn't hurt to--

“Excuse me -- do you mind showing me your ID?”

Richard froze. Then he turned to the voice.

It belonged to a man in plated armor, but his mask was up to reveal a suspicious pair of eyes.

Richard ran an algorithm through the system, checking if that question was actually a code for something else entirely.

He didn't find anything. That only meant so much. “Of course,” he said, pulling it out once more and handing it to the man.

What followed was a similar process to that at the front desk, though a different machine -- one that was even easier for Richard to link to.

“Haven’t seen you ‘round before,” the man said, examining the card for a few moments. “You new?”

_“One wrong word can ruin everything for me. Do you understand that?”_

Richard felt himself burrow into the recesses of his mind, let instinct take over. He chuckled. It didn't sound as forced as it felt. “That obvious?”

The man’s eyes flicked upwards, the edges crinkled in the signs of a smile. He outstretched the card. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll settle in just fine around here.”

He got a pat on the back, and then the man was gone, too.

Richard forced himself to breathe.

Then he scrambled away, his pace faster than before as he threw himself into the stairway and began taking the stairs down.

Six levels. He’d need to go six levels, take the east corridor, hack the waiting systems, then get access to the files.

And deal with the people along the way.

Richard walked down at a steady pace, arms pumping all the while. There weren’t too many people here, though the reason why there wasn’t such a large mass of people at this base would probably only be explained once he got access to what he was looking for.

There were only eight heat signatures on this floor that could pose a threat, each stationed exactly where he’d anticipated. To be safe -- as much as this part made him want to curl up in a ball and give up -- he’d need to find a way to pick them off one by one without alerting any of the other guards. His combat training was at its bare minimum, so relying on distractions would be his go-to.

He took another deep breath.

Then he closed his eyes, letting himself fold into the technology around him.

It felt like an extension of himself was coiling through the wires, surfacing within and looking over the area with infinite eyes. Accessing cameras was a bit precarious, but it gave him a more detailed look into the situation at hand, which admittedly wasn’t much at the moment.

But those cameras did tell him that seven of these guards likely had internal processors that, with a little effort, Richard could manipulate to his advantage.

They were stationed in pairs. Two of the four pairs were chatting aimlessly.

“... But honestly, kudos to her. I bet the higher-ups are pissed about all the rumors, but good riddance. Carolina deserves a fucking medal. Killing Bullshot was probably the most useful thing the Supers have done this month.”

“Bullshot really wasn’t that bad! Besides, we don’t know for sure if he’s dead. She never said she killed him.”

“She called him ‘dead.’”

“Still!”

“Jesus fucking Chr--”

“Bullshot was just some normal vigilante trying to do some good. He deserved a proper prosecution -- not a death sentence. Therefore, Carolina _wouldn’t_ just randomly kill him!”

The argument got heated from there, and Richard turned his attention to the two other conversing guards.

“--so I told him that he needs to guard inside. He still hasn’t left, which is weird, but I _think_ he may be pouting or something. I dunno. He won’t just straight-up tell me.”

“Eh, he’s probably just in a mood.”

“Mike doesn’t get moods.”

“Look, he’s still embarrassed about the… the incident. Y’know. So not a mood, but a _mood_.”

“I just feel bad. I snapped on him, Ezra! And I know that--”

“Mike is fine. He’s probably just in there thinking about ways to upgrade his suit that go strictly against code and will probably get himself killed.”

“He’s not going to die.”

“It was a _joke_ , Vera. Besides, how the hell would anyone die down here? Nothing happens. They just stuffed us down here because they felt bad that we fucked up in the field. If anyone’s gonna die, it’ll be Texas.”

“Texas will never die, and that’s a fact. And we’ll get to the field again -- we just need to work together! No more incidents, or whatever. I’m sure we -- and, uh, the others down here -- will get surface-side soon.”

This was almost sad. Those two were directly in front of the lock series he needed to access, but he figured that, if their conversation was anything to go by, getting past wouldn’t be much of a problem so long as he took care of the other guards leading to them first.

He examined the first silent pair. They looked like they were taking their jobs seriously, guns in hand and heads at a swivel. Restless, maybe.

He could work with that.

Richard slid into their systems, worming through to the audio dispatch center of their helmets. They’d know better than to expect an early shift off -- at least, he hoped they’d know better than that -- so he’d need a little something else. Nothing too complex.

He relayed the sound of metal clattering through their helmets. The one on the left received the cue from the north side, and the one on the right received from the south.

“Hear that?” one asked, and the other simply nodded. “This way,” they continued, pointing north.

“Uh, no. It came from over there.” They pointed the opposite direction.

“No it fucking didn't-- know what? You check there, I’ll check over here. ‘Kay?”

They shrugged.

“Fucking asshole.”

The pair took off in separate directions.

Easy enough.

He strolled on past them, keeping his eyes peeled in case either looked back. When they didn't, he scurried to a safe corner. Cameras weren’t an issue, not while he was still controlling that system as well. So much multitasking was difficult, but only difficult in the way a puzzle was difficult -- it was _fun_. And for him, it was natural. The pressure of getting caught was an obvious point of interest, but he had control over everything outside of human behavior. This was his niche.

He couldn’t help the smile that slid open behind his mask. Anxieties aside, he was enjoying this.

The next couple of steps were crucial. The upcoming pair of guards were just beyond him, oblivious to his presence. Beyond them was the second-to-last pair, only one of which had a comm system. 

Simultaneously, he tapped into that system, checking to see if either of the first guards had made a note of the sound. One of them had.

Using the guard’s voice through the system, he replicated a quick, simple message: _“Help me check this out so we can get this shit over with.”_

The guard snorted, and Richard watched through the mechanical systems of the suit as they elbowed their partner. “Let’s check the noise out. We could use a distraction.”

Good.

Now this next pair. 

They’d been alerted as well, but they’d dismissed the message. Noise wasn’t enough for them as they stood there, awkward and silent. 

Richard shut down all power for the suit on the left.

Its user collapsed, obviously, and the partner immediately scrambled over, cursing. “What the fuck? Dude, what are you--”

A moment’s distraction. Enough that they wouldn’t think they could have missed anything, that no one would have slipped by because all the guards were idiots and had checked on a random noise. Benefit of the doubt and all.

Richard turned off the remaining guard’s access to peripheral vision -- an action he knew by practice would go unnoticed -- before slipping silently by them as well. They were close enough to touch.

Embarrassing for them, really.

As soon as he was past, he put the systems back in order.

“What the fuck was that about?” came from behind him.

They wouldn’t even know what hit them. Fucking morons.

Now that the third pair was gone, he could just--

“Who the hell are you?”

Oh. _Fuck_. The question wasn’t loud enough for concern, but…

Richard had been careless. Stupid. _Stupid_. The guard without the comms, without technology he could manipulate. He should have checked more closely with the cameras to see if he’d stayed behind, but _no_. He had to go and get _cocky_.

At least this guard couldn’t immediately alert the other ones. Unless he, well. Yelled. Really loud. Or something.

Richard hated being unable to control biological systems.

“Tex sent me,” he said, using a voice he couldn’t quite place. Was it Agent Delaware’s? 

The guard shifted his weapon, head tilting as Richard kept coming, not allowing himself to break or slow stride. “I… we weren’t made aware.”

Richard stopped at this, was silent for a moment. Then, “Considering the others knew, I’d put that blame on your lack of comms. You should really invest in those.”

He was so deep in the routine, so focused on the intertwining variables that he physically didn't have the time to overthink this. He sounded calm even while he was far from it.

“Uh, I think I should--”

Richard sighed and kept walking, now only a couple feet from him.

Then the guard opened his mouth and took a suspiciously deep breath.

All the outcomes ran through his mind within that fraction of a second. Richard’s eye whirred, and he pulled more tendrils of his focus back into his body, letting it whip into action at its own accord.

It was a maneuver his father had taught him. Useful for situations like this, when you couldn’t have a body on the floor revealing the fact that someone was there who shouldn’t be.

Richard’s hands were cupping over the guard’s ears.

He blinked, pulling back slowly.

Simple. Accurate, based on his readings. He’d successfully made this guard… well, sleepwalk? Sleepstand? Either way, the deliberate impact against his eardrums and right temple had rendered him unconscious in mind, but his body certainly didn't look it.

Richard could worry about the consequences of this choice later.

He strode forward.

He was panting. He was anxious. 

He swallowed the feeling down as he approached the final pair of guards.

One of them -- Vera, Richard reminded himself -- tilted her head. “Uhhh--”

He didn't say a word.

He was already hacking the door. It was in tune to his card, so all he needed to do was put it up to the display.

“Are you--?” Ezra said before stopping short. 

He held up his card to the door.

It opened, slow and laborious and groaning in a metal melody that thrummed into his bones in healthy vibrations.

One down.

“Oh. I guess you… had… access. Right. Um. Go ahead?”

He ignored that in favor of moving forward.

The door closed behind him, and just like that, he was alone.

Richard allowed himself one second to sigh in relief. Then he got back to work, thrusting his powers online and into the remaining locks guarding the mainframe.

Easy. Slide the pieces around in his mind. Solve the puzzle. Don’t break anything, don’t trigger anything, don’t even glance at anything too suspicious.

This was harder than previous, but for Richard, it was still instinct.

When he opened his eyes, the path was clear.

The mainframe stood 25 yards ahead, no longer obstructed, its large form taking the whole of his view.

“Right,” he said to himself. With a physical structure that large, it was probably wildly outdated. No wonder he couldn’t access it before.

Richard stepped on in, giving its exterior featherlight touches as he searched for a place of input. 

“O- oh! Sorry- I’m-- uh--! I know I’m not supposed to be in here, but I _swear_ it was an accident!”

Richard froze.

He turned his head slightly.

There was another man in armor, a style similar to that of the pair guarding the door.

This was, uh. Very unexpected.

A small, strangled sound escaped him before he could stop it.

The person -- Mike? Something like that -- dropped his hands. “Uh, look, I was just tryin’ to fix some bugs in the suit and accidentally got in here? I swear I’m not an intruder.”

His brain wasn’t working. Shit. _Shit._

He needed to get this _done._

He needed to get the information for his father and get the fuck out.

Why was this stopping him? He could just tell Mike to leave. Right? Right.

“G- get out,” he squeaked. 

Mike tilted his head. “Wait. I don’t… I never got word someone was supposed to be accessing this today. Who are you?”

Then something brushed against his head -- no, _in_ his head.

Mike was…

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuck _fuck_.

“Richard Sime, Jr.,” Mike was saying, perhaps to remember it, “you, uh, have red hair and… you’re a cyb--?”

Richard’s heart clenched. The cybernetics felt like they were overheating.

Without another word, he outstretched his hand and clenched his fist, once again letting instinct take over. Whatever else Mike was about to say was abruptly cut off, and all Richard could hear were desperate, fading gasps for air.

He locked Mike’s armor.

Then he pooled toward the mainframe, more careless than before.

He slipped into it entirely, grasped at everything, hurled it into himself. The data swam around him, too much too fast to make sense at the moment, but it was all coming for him.

He created a direct line to his father’s own system. Just in case.

This was ugly. It was messy.

Too much too fast. He was panicking. He wasn’t supposed to panic. This was easy for him why was he panicking what the hell was going on--

Names and faces ran past him. Mission reports, private documents, numbers and orders and lists and--

His body was struggling to keep up.

Richard tried to pull back, but the floodgates were open.

He and the Foundation were one in the same.

He could see everything, every _one_. Watching, waiting, brushing against wires and glaring through lights.

He shook, and the Foundation shook with him.

Something wasn’t right, he knew. It was obvious.

He had to stop.

He had to disconnect.

Hopefully his father got enough.

Hopefully his father wouldn’t kill him for not getting enough.

Richard disconnected and dropped to the floor.

He could feel his own body again, his limbs sprawled beneath him, his blood racing through his veins, heart pounding in his head.

It was dark around him. In there, he must have… he went too far. He went into something else, the heart of the place.

Had he shut everything down? No, no -- that wasn’t possible. It didn't make sense. He just-- it was just himself. His own, idiot self fucking up and--

Richard remembered he wasn’t alone in the room.

Mike wasn’t attacking him. Couldn’t attack him, really. After all, Richard had cut off his oxygen supply, locked his ability to get out of the suit.

Holy fuck.

Richard had…

He’d never killed anyone. Shit wait he--

He activated night vision and scrambled over to Mike.

Not breathing.

Since he was disconnected, he couldn’t release his hold. Shit.

Manually then.

His fingers seemed to instinctively know the way, brushing over the pieces to find the right parts to manipulate. Such was Richard’s way, but… 

He was probably too late.

The oxygen switched on with a soft buzz.

He didn't wait to see if Mike was still alive to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a shitty murderino. I love hearing about murders, but I always forget the details about the names of both the killers and the victims, which is kinda rude. So instead I’m hit up in a Hangout call and someone casually mentions catheters, as one does, and I tell them, “Yeah, there was a serial killer who killed a dude with a catheter” and then I have absolutely no other context. I’m berated on all ends. I remember how the murder happened and why it happened because it was quite uncivil, but no level of verbal assault will give me details beyond, “I think the killer was an angry nurse?” If you push hard enough, I’ll make up details. The serial killer will become a doctor who killed 26 people with catheters using a variety of methods I will describe to you if you’re sick enough. He was never caught. He’s one of three serial killers called the Angel of Death, and chances are that he’s still alive today. He was handsome like the cool serial killers are. He also hugged your wife. Watch out for Grandpa.


	6. Tucker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The air was damp, as it was so often this time of the year. Water hung heavily in every breath Tucker took, instilled with the scent of freshly packed mud and horsehair. Shit, too, now that he thought about it.

The air was damp, as it was so often this time of the year. Water hung heavily in every breath Tucker took, instilled with the scent of freshly packed mud and horsehair. Shit, too, now that he thought about it.

He wrinkled his nose.

The stadium was packed today, even more than the usual betters trying their hands against the odds of animals they acted like they could measure. Well, maybe they kinda could, but Tucker liked to think they were wrong. Probability was one thing, he knew -- was intimately familiar with -- but the will of an animal was something else entirely.

Albus, for one, was clutching his tickets tighter than most Saturdays. He’d want a big win today.

Tucker stared forward to the track, which was currently empty as they tried to resettle the horses in gates where their hooves wouldn’t get stuck in the mud and snap their ankles, and glowered. More work for him. More potential failure for him.

“Number four,” Albus said. Sure enough, his voice came across tight, and he barely opened his lips to utter the words. Tucker was lucky to hear him at all, with the noise echoing around him.

He pursed his lips and nodded. Number four.

It was a few minutes until the gun finally went off, and horses went their pounding way around the course. As they flew from their gates, jockeys straddling their backs, number four emerged as second-to-last. He was clumsy, his feet off rhythm where most horses were sure-footed.

Tucker concentrated, waiting until they hit the first bend. Then, at a whisper, “What are the odds that number four wins?” Right now, the odds were 29/1, according to the scorecard. Not the worst, sure, but pretty fucking bad compared to the likes of Stadium Stormer. The air around him shifted at the words, pulling in as if the world was bating its breath for him. “Twenty to one,” he said.

There was a soft _pop_. Number four overtook two opponents.

Tucker risked a glance. Albus was beginning to smirk.

He had to keep going. That was one of the biggest successful probability-changes he’d made so far, but practice meant better results, right? Besides, horse-racing was in constant fluctuation. Making changes here was easier than the changes he attempted on his own time.

“What are the odds number four wins?” he repeated. Again, the effect came at him, hugging his body. Best not to try too big a jump yet -- the horses still had a little ways to go. “Fifteen to one.”

For a moment, nothing happened. The air felt like static as it simply continued pushing, and Tucker felt a whisp of anxiety rise up his gut. 

The soft pop returned. Number four gained more speed.

He was on a role.

Without giving himself time to recover, he went on, “What are the odds number four wins? Ten to one.”

Another pop.

A chuckle escaped Albus.

The sound had him instinctively clenching his jaw, balling his hands into fists. He was fine. Better than fine, actually. Tucker was great. He was fucking _amazing_ , and he was just doing this for now as _practice_ , not because he just needed to survive but because it meant he was _better_. Albus had nothing to do with it.

There was no reason why, when he spoke again, it was through gritted teeth. “What are the odds number four wins? Five to one.”

This time, the air buzzed and hissed, sprawling away from him in a flurry. No pop.

Fuck. He wasn’t focused enough.

Sweat laced his forehead, soaked into his hair.

He was fine. He could do this.

“What are the odds number four wins?”

He had to make it count. They were on the final stretch.

Tucker closed his eyes, let the warping air overtake his senses. People were starting to yell. He ignored them. “Two to one.”

_Pop._

He opened his eyes.

Tucker could alter probability, but that didn't mean he could influence actual results. Number four was matching stride with Stadium Stormer, body soaked in sweat and muscles heavy with exertion.

He clenched his fists tighter. This would tell him… something. Something important.

He wanted Stadium Stormer to win.

If Stadium Stormer won, it was against the odds.

“C’mon,” Albus muttered. He was leaning forward now, watching the nose-to-nose strides of the horses. “Get in there.”

Tucker squinted.

It was close, but… 

He stifled his own smirk as the near-photo finish appeared on the screen overhead.

He could already tell who won.

Sure, Albus would be pissed, but it wouldn’t be at Tucker.

The tickets crinkled in Albus’ hold.

Tucker risked a glance, just to see whether or not the monocle looked close to popping out.

Heh. Score.

The others surrounding them in the box seating made varying noises of complaint or satisfaction. A few offered Albus some pats on the back, dutifully ignoring Tucker’s presence beside him. For all they knew, Tucker was supposed to be a Nonhuman bodyguard -- Nonhuman because his fairly small stature wasn’t something that could be ignored. The fact that he whispered during races was largely missed or left aside -- manipulating probability as a Nonhuman ability didn't make much sense, so it wasn’t something they’d expect. It also made Tucker quite the commodity, especially hidden in plain sight as he was.

Albus grabbed his elbow suddenly. “Number twelve.”

He released him, switched which ticket he was holding at the forefront.

Tucker sighed.

Number twelve.

\---------

Getting adopted was honestly the last thing Tucker had wanted. Getting adopted by Albus Tucker, of all people, had almost made him change his mind until he realized what he was getting himself into.

He thought he’d escaped the system -- only when he was at the cusp of eighteen were the papers penned and pushed, and he found himself walking into a mansion with a rapidly diminishing scowl.

Tucker ( _always Tucker even before Albus. He thought it was coincidence. Now, he’s not so sure._ ) remembered his thoughts then. He was almost eighteen. He’d be flying out these doors soon enough anyway, but now he had some rich monocle-wearing white asshat to throw money at him on the way. He couldn’t complain. Late adoptions were rare, sure, so he supposed “lucky” was one word that could be ascribed to it.

He knew better now.

Then again, knowing better was inevitable. Anyone could realize they were in a fucked-up situation when they were locked in an actual fucking cell with actual fucking steel bars and no fucking windows for fucking _years_.

Such was routine, but Tucker was stubborn. He prided himself on the fact that he never let himself grow attached to Albus, never saw his times out to aid his gambling as a reprieve or salvation, never saw the food or clothes or showers as gifts but rather as fucking necessities he _deserved_. 

He wasn’t sure if what was happening was a human rights violation, or whatever, seeing as he was a Nonhuman. He wasn’t out enough to get a read on politics, and it really wasn’t something he was interested in learning about.

Instead, when he was out, he looked at escapes. He kept his head on straight, telling Stockholm Syndrome to fuck off whenever he found himself beginning to preen in Albus’ praise.

The Foundation seemed like a good place to start. Glimpses he saw about it on the papers and rumors he heard from the high society Albus kept up with suggested it was a refuge for Nonhumans.

So.

He had the semblance of a plan.

Rule number one was that he would only escape when he was here, in the goddamn prison cell. Trying while in public would be stupid, and Tucker wasn’t an idiot.

And… yeah, that was really the only rule. Other than ‘don’t get caught like a dumbass.’

There was also only one real step to the plan. He was facing long odds, but, well… that _was_ what he practiced in, after all.

So he had a routine going; one that folded into the routine Albus had made for him and cast it as his own. Albus wasn’t in control now. Tucker was.

This kept him sane. It gave him hope. It kept him alive.

He could barely hear himself, even in the silence surrounding him. “What are the odds I get out?”

Air pressed at all sides, spasming and flailing around him.

The odds were low. So low and so long that any attempt to change them bordered on impossible. If they hadn’t, he figured he’d be out by now.

“One percent,” he finished.

The air whooshed away. No pops, nothing. At this stage, he couldn’t even feel disappointment. Just that same stubborn determination that had fueled him all this time, left him lying awake at night muttering about probability, pushing himself to the brink of breaking.

He’d gone about this multiple ways, trying to find an angle that could help him. Some were more ridiculous -- once he’d asked the odds of a window spontaneously appearing. That one had gone through, but the odds weren’t high enough to have a physical effect that pushed a window into existence. It was absurd, really -- not to mention he was underground, so. There was also that.

“What are the odds the bars collapse?” he tried this time. He was already hot from the effort, panting slightly. “Uh, three percent?”

No pops. Just air whooshing away as if annoyed.

He sighed and pulled at his hair. “What are the odds I get another ability?” 

A familiar push crowding around him, anticipating his next move. 

“Two percent.”

_Pop!_

He blinked. Huh. It went through. That was… really unexpected. But seeing as his odds were so low--

Pure energy thrummed through him in a beat, emerging around the entirety of his body as though it had been waiting. Tucker was buzzing, everything feeling like static and out of reach.

It occurred to him that he was probably in shock.

“What the fuck?” he said, but it came out twisted and warped, sounding more like the faint, high-pitched buzz that idled behind old televisions.

He looked at his hand.

It.

Was not. 

A hand.

It had the shape of a hand, sure, but it was _not_ a _fucking_ hand.

Instead, he was staring at blue plasma, or electricity, or energy, or _whatever_ it was that was not his skin and oh God.

His panic almost made him feel like he burned brighter, hotter. “What the fuck!” he repeated, and this time he could make out the words but they were played out in that fucking static and buzzing.

He was already exhausted. Not like before, not like the hours of running probabilities (and this one worked? What the hell!) that left him bone-tired. He felt like he was… running out. 

Oh shit.

Not dying, but… losing _energy_.

Oh _shit_.

He was fucking _energy_ right now, hovering inches off the ground. How hadn’t he noticed?

Vaguely, he wondered what the rest of his body looked like.

Then he stopped thinking because fuck that noise he was out of here.

He pressed his arms against his sides, drew his legs against each other, and plowed straight through the fucking ceiling.

It felt like nothing. He went through, and the ceiling burned and gave way, but he didn't feel it. He just kept going, turning to go out a wall and fucking _outside_.

He was doing it. Holy fuck.

Tucker wasn’t sure if anyone witnessed that particular exit, but he also didn't give a fuck.

He zoomed on, whooping as he went too fast for anyone to actually see him.

And then, as quickly as it started, it was over.

The energy drained, and he was thrown at the ground at who-the-fuck-knows miles per hour.

Tucker didn't care.

He was far, far away from Albus now.

He’d done it. He fucking- he gave himself another ability.

He was fucking _awesome_.

And, know what? The Foundation could wait a bit. Tucker was going to _live_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey. Didn't see you there. This is my dog. He treats squirrels like he treats stuffed animals, and he treats stuffed animals very gently. Give him a pat. He’s a good boy.


	7. Alpha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Church remembered absolutely nothing but also remembered some things and was aware of other things like the fact that he was Leonard L. Church but also not entirely Leonard L. Church for reasons he was aware of but also choosing to ignore.
> 
> For all intents and purposes, Church had simultaneously just come into existence while also having existed, aware, for a time before this.
> 
> It didn't make sense.
> 
> It made perfect sense.

Church remembered absolutely nothing but also remembered some things and was aware of other things like the fact that he was Leonard L. Church but also not entirely Leonard L. Church for reasons he was aware of but also choosing to ignore.

For all intents and purposes, Church had simultaneously just come into existence while also having existed, aware, for a time before this.

It didn't make sense.

It made perfect sense.

The person who was Leonard L. Church but not completely Leonard L. Church blinked.

There was a world around him. He’d gotten here somehow. He didn't remember how. There were people around him, not interacting with him. He didn't know them. He also didn't know where he was.

He looked around himself. It was… a park. Yes. 

Okay.

He was fucking panicking.

Church tried to take a deep breath, but nothing around him was making sense because it was making sense yet wasn’t and it was _fucking confusing_ \--

Delta straightened his spine and inhaled. He glanced around, taking in all the information and compartmentalizing based on significance and relevance. This was put to the back of his mind as he began marching forward, steps determined and even.

For posterity’s sake, he put a hand to his ear. Delta knew what people would think about someone talking to themselves.

“Alpha,” he said, his tone flat. “You must settle down.”

 _Settle down?!_ Alpha squeaked, incredulous. _What the fuck is happening!_

“Alpha,” he repeated in the same placating tone. “You must keep calm. You know what’s happening, you simply don’t remember it. You are defined by your amnesiac response to our situation.”

_Memory is pretty fucking important, asshole!_

Delta decided to ignore the panic running through Alpha’s mind. Explanations would do.

He kept walking, face forward, still taking in all the information. Precautionary measures were always good. “We have the condition of Dissociative Identity Disorder. That is, in part, why you cannot rememb--”

_I what?_

He wasn’t annoyed at the interruption, exactly. Vaguely exasperated, perhaps; but he could understand on a technical level what was happening to Alpha. It made logical sense, such as logic as applied to emotion _could_ make sense, which was a tenuous matter but nonetheless predictable. “You know this already, Alpha. You are the current host alter. An unusual manifestation for a host, but you will do quite fine, I am sure.” Best not to be specific with this alter. “Would you like to remember any events leading to now?”

Alpha was finally settling down in the recesses of their brain, now taken to prodding cautiously at Delta’s thoughts. He allowed this. _Why do I have the feeling that has a price?_

No longer yelling. That was an improvement. “It does. I can predict the consequences, but I don’t house our all of the memories either. I can share my findings, if you’d like.”

_Findings from what? Your, like, ten seconds of existence?_

Delta hummed. “It has been much longer than that. But I can predict and calculate based on given information quite quickly. I’ve already analyzed--”

Alpha thrust forward, practically lunging for control.

Delta allowed this as well and--

Church gasped, dropping the hand from his ear and stumbling to a stop.

_\--our surroundings and determined we are in Greenstone Park. I can direct you to individuals I’ve deemed most likely to help us find--_

“Shuddup,” Church said, waving a frantic hand. A person on his left gave him a weird look.

_She’s not a threat. Her name is Amina Johnson, and--_

“The fuck did I just tell you!” Church exclaimed, spinning in a tight circle. He was drawing attention, he knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. This was… this was wrong. Right? And how the hell did-- Delta?-- know all that shit about some random woman who--

Delta didn't communicate verbally, per se, rather thrusting the information upon him. Hyperintelligence. Delta was Nonhuman-- _Leonard L. Church, the body_ was Nonhuman.

Church understood instinctively what that meant, just as he understood they were speaking fucking English despite not knowing where he got this information.

His vision was swimming.

Delta directed his attention to the nearest bench, and Church flung himself at it. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, I…” He bit his lip.

Delta sent another bite of information at him -- he’d only spoken while fronting (fronting? like--) to put him at ease. They could speak without speaking.

“I’m going to die,” Church said aloud anyway.

Delta hummed inside his head. _That is not likely in this moment._

He tapped his foot twice. Then, as scathing as he could conceive, _It was hyperbole, smartass._

There was a beat.

Then, Delta: _Ah._

_Hyperintelligent my ass._

_That is not how--_

“Sarcasm,” he ground out.

Okay.

He was totally fine. He just… had a voice in his head. No big deal.

_I am not simply a voice, Alpha. I am an alter._

He was fucking insane.

_You are not insane. Forming alternate identities as a method of coping with trauma is rare, but not entirely unheard of--_

_Not helping,_ he sent in a frantic wave. 

Delta wasn’t exactly comforting. _I can answer any questions you have, if that will help you adjust._

“Right.” Right. Questions. He had those. “Um.” _How many are there?_

Delta brushed against him, thoughtful. _Counting yourself and me, there are only four alters in the surface of our mindspace, though I’m not yet sure if you can communicate directly with the fourth. There are, however, others who--_

“Four?”

He knew this wasn’t normal. He knew Dissociative Identity Disorder wasn’t normal. Fucking hell.

_Yes. Theta and Omega are also active. Each of us houses an ability, if you are interested in knowing what those are._

“I’m not _interested_ in the fucking abilities,” he growled, “I’m…”

Okay, knowing abilities was probably important, but he had to take this one step at a time. “Why do I only hear you?”

_You are not hearing me so much as--_

_You know what I meant._

Delta hummed. _I am simply guiding you. Theta is not yet close enough to the front, but I am sure you will meet him soon enough. He is eager to meet Alpha. Omega does not have complete control over his manifestations, and as I said, I am unsure you two can communicate directly._

This was a mess. “I’m gonna have a panic attack,” he stated plainly.

_That would be one method to meet Theta sooner._

“Was that a joke?”

_No._

Church shook his head. “Whatever. Okay. I can, uh. Is there a way to… shut you out?”

_You can try, though I don’t encourage that as a coping mechanism. But you cannot prohibit others from fronting entirely._

_No, no, no,_ he offered, almost frantic. _I just mean like… where I can have my thoughts to myself. Not talking to… to alters. Can I do that?_

_Yes. To a degree. The same way you can ignore others in the same room as yourself._

Delta didn't elaborate.

“How? What if I want the room to myself?” Church prompted.

_You can simply ask us to give you some time._

Delta stated that flatly, and Church was pretty sure he hadn’t meant it as an insult, but it still came off peeved. “Okay, then. Uh.” Fuck. He was in a mess of things now. “Please give me a second?”

And Delta was gone.

Church was alone, and the contrast left him reeling for several moments.

This was his normal.

He could tolerate it. He could figure it out. He could deal with… with sharing a head. And a body. And having other identities, for that matter.

Okay.

The past could wait. Delta’s suggestion of remembering sent a bolt of fear through him and left him recoiling, so that was a no.

He was also fairly certain Delta wasn’t telling him several things, but that could probably be chalked up to the fact that Church was already taking on too much at once. If he asked, Delta would tell him. Because they shared a head, and… that was what head-sharers… did?

Fuck.

_Fuck._

\----------

Church suspected that something other than luck had been helping him survive the past few weeks because people didn't just randomly stumble upon wallets with an ID that looked exactly like them and enough money to get a room on the sketchier side of town from someone he was pretty sure was a drug-dealer. 

The ID proved unnecessary in getting the room, seeing as Gary ( _That is not his name,_ Delta had informed him) didn't bother asking for one. Or even for a name.

He’d have a number of those to choose from.

Getting a room wasn’t really for his sake. Sure it was nice, but…

But it was somewhere to relax a bit.

He opened the door and looked inside. There was a bed that actually wasn’t moth-eaten, as he’d expected, and a small dingy bathroom. 

Church shut the door. “Is this better?” he asked and glanced around so they could see the place in its entirety.

 _It’s gross,_ said Theta.

Church snorted. “Yeah? Would you rather I take us back to--”

 _It’s great!_ Theta interrupted.

Church smiled softly, tossing his bag onto the floor. “That’s what I thought.”

Theta giggled. _Don’t be mean, Alpha._

“‘M not being mean. I got you a room, for f- God’s sake. That’s bordering on _nice_ , and you and I both know how I feel about that.”

Theta rubbed against him, radiating his thanks.

Church cleared his throat. “Right. I don’t think Gary cares if I--”

_Not Gary._

“I _know_ , Delta, just-- I don’t think he cares that we’re Nonhuman, but just in case, let’s keep it on the down-low, okay?”

 _Uh-huh,_ Theta offered, seeming distracted.

Eh, it was good enough.

“Great. Then let’s--”

“What the fuck.”

Church froze.

 _Turn around,_ said Delta.

 _He said the f-word,_ , said Theta.

 _Shut up and let me take care of this,_ he shot at them both quickly before finally turning around and facing the voice that wasn’t emanating from his own skull.

He was about Church’s age, with dark black skin and hair pulled into braids. He was a bit short, and Church had to quickly adjust to look down in order to meet his eyes. “Uh, can I help you?” he said, letting the bitterness seep through.

“Dunno,” the man said, looking around. “Who were you talking to?”

“Don’t worry about it. Why the hell are you in ou- my room?”

“ _Your_ room?” He scoffed. “Since when? I’ve been crashing here for weeks.”

He blinked, rooted to his spot. “Since Not-Gary gave me the keys.” He fished them from his back pocket and held them up, shaking them slightly.

“Figures.” The man huffed before pulling out an identical pair. “He seriously would pull this shit. At least it gives me an excuse to not pay rent again.”

Church closed his eyes.

 _He seems nice,_ Theta offered.

_You say that about everyone._

_Most people are nice._

“I’m Tucker,” he said, lips splitting into a smile. “Knowing Gary -- or whatever he said his name was -- we’re probably gonna be sharing this place for a bit.” He shrugged, a slightly aborted movement as he eyed Church’s singular bag. “I usually spend the night elsewhere anyway, if you get what I mean. Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

_What’s that mean?_

Church blinked. “Uh.”

Tucker crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, looking amused. “Dude, the least you can do is tell me your name. Or stop ogling me. I know I’m a good sight to behold, but sheesh.”

That was all it took to knock Church from his reverie. He scowled. “I just wasn’t expecting a fucking roommate. _Excuse me_ for being surprised,” he spat.

Tucker’s grin turned mischievous. “You’re excused.”

Church rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Even if you’re staying the night here, I’m taking the bed.”

“Dude--”

“And don’t touch my stuff.”

“Your name?”

He sighed. “My name’s Church.”

Tucker pulled himself from the wall and stuck out a hand. “Cool. Nice to meet ya, Church.”

After a moment, Church finally took the hand. This was probably going to make things complicated.

“By the way, I’m Nonhuman. Are you gonna try and kill me, ‘cause...?”

Church didn't like being surprised so many times in the space of so little time. What kind of moron just straight-up admitted to being Nonhuman? “Why the hell would I do that?”

“You’re an asshole?”

That… was honestly kind of fair. “Sure, whatever. I don’t give a fuck. I’m not gonna kill you.”

Tucker grinned at him again. “You’re Nonhuman, too, aren’t you?”

This really was just one gut punch after another. “Why would you think that?”

“‘Cause you’re here? You got, like, one bag of shit? You’re all…” Tucker waggled his fingers, “jumpy.”

_Those are quite simple observations, Alpha. Perhaps you would like to take me up on my offer to--_

_Shut up. I don’t need fucking lessons on how to act less suspicious._

_That is not what I--_

“Yeah, I’m Nonhuman,” he responded. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t. I just wanted to be right.” 

Another fit of annoyance rolled in his chest. “Well, congratulations. Do you want a medal?”

“A beer would be nice.” Tucker threw himself bodily at the bed, immediately sprawling his limbs out to take it up entirely. He closed his eyes even as he kept on, “You got any of those?”

Church sighed. He’d really need to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For information about Dissociative Identity Disorder, please check out Multiplicity & Me on Youtube. They provide so much information that I personally believe everyone is better knowing so as to play a part in actively removing stereotypes from broader society that harmful media content, such as the film _Split_ , often provides. They’re open and honest about their system and provide not only scientific information about DID, but information based on their personal experiences.


	8. Michael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loved them, and they loved him. Michael took care of them. He played games with them. Today was Capture The Flag.
> 
> Marie’s seven-year-old frame was riding on Michael’s shoulders. She kept pulling his hair in the directions she wanted him to go. It was fun. She was laughing. He was laughing.
> 
> He always let his sisters win. Michael never captured the flag, but he did get captured a lot. This made his sisters happy, and they’d smile and giggle and crawl over him in triumph. This made him happy, too.

Michael had many sisters, and he loved all of them. Despite being at an age smack-dab between them all, they all called him their older brother. He was also their only brother.

He was bigger than most of them. Originally, it was just his looming height, but he’d been putting on more and more body mass lately from all his time picking up Marie and Melinda and Macy, so he was bigger in other ways, too.

He didn't mind. He loved them, and they loved him. Michael took care of them. He played games with them. Today was Capture The Flag.

Marie’s seven-year-old frame was riding on Michael’s shoulders. She kept pulling his hair in the directions she wanted him to go. It was fun. She was laughing. He was laughing.

He always let his sisters win. Michael never captured the flag, but he did get captured a lot. This made his sisters happy, and they’d smile and giggle and crawl over him in triumph. This made him happy, too.

They stayed outdoors most of the time. Michael made sure of this. Going inside was dangerous, so when the respective flags were collected, he was the one to bring them in for a wash that wouldn’t quite rid the muddy stains.

Mom and Dad fought a lot. Mom was nice, giving him and his sisters hugs whenever she could. She taught him to read and write, guiding his hands in patient motions that whole while. 

Dad wasn’t so nice.

This wasn’t exactly uncommon for people in their district, especially since an earthquake had come through and torn apart houses and families. Michael’s mom and dad were already drifting, but broken things meant paying money, and paying money meant an angry Dad.

Dad threw things and kicked things. He wasn’t gentle. He didn't stop when asked nicely.

Michael closed the door as quickly and quietly as he could. He made sure his sisters didn't see the brunt of the arguments. It would upset them, and he didn't want them to be upset.

There were shouts from inside and the sound of something shattering from inside. Marie’s attention snapped to the door, so he patted her arm as gently as possible and offered, “I’ll check.”

When she was safely on the ground, Marie planted her hands on her hips and pouted. “Will you give me more piggy-back rides when you get back?”

Michael nodded fervently. “Of course,” he said, mustering as much sincerity into his voice as possible.

Inside, there were several remains of broken plates littering the floor. They looked like the ones from Mom’s china cabinet. Hopefully Mom wouldn’t be too devastated. He opened his mouth to call for her and--

“It’s fucking ridiculous!” Dad screamed. “And there’s fucking kids everywhere and only one boy? The fuck is with that! And every one of them is fucked up one way or another -- you’re lucky Michael is as strong as he is because no one else’s got anything going for them--”

So faint that he almost missed it, his mom said, “That’s not true.”

Dad burst into the kitchen, head thrown back as he laughed showingly. “Oh, right -- because _you_ would know best.”

When Mom walked in, she had a cut on her upper lip. Michael’s spine straightened. “Dad,” he said, “um, do you need me to help you with the tractor?”

Mom’s eyes widened, and she gave Michael a small shake of the head. 

Dad’s beetle-eyes narrowed on him. “Yeah, because your approach is always the best,” he drawled. Then he lifted his chin. “You know what? I think I know what the problem is.”

Before Michael could ask what problem he was talking about, Dad whipped back around on Mom. “You’re too goddamn soft on them all, and now I’m the one paying for it.”

“Dad--”

Dad grabbed something off the table. It flashed under the lights as he used his free hand to grab Mom by the chin and pull her in front of him, the knife pointed roughly at Michael. “All this time, and the answer was right in front of me.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Michael said, using his firm voice like when his sisters were fighting. “Stop it.”

Dad chortled. “Take a step closer, kid, and I’ll slit her throat right now.”

Mom was whispering, pleading lightly to Dad’s ears even as she spared glances to Michael and gently shook her head.

In an abrupt motion, Dad heaved Mom off the floor with an ease Michael so often shared. She dangled there, hands clawing at her throat, legs kicking out.

Mom didn't deserve this. His sisters didn't deserve this. Dad was doing something wrong, and he had to stop.

The knife was inches in front of Mom’s eye, and Dad was laughing again.

If Michael moved, he’d hurt her.

Dad cocked his head. “Let’s just get this over with,” he said, lowering the arm with the knife.

For a moment, Michael was relieved. Dad’s tantrum was over.

Then Dad’s arm was thrusting upward, up toward Mom’s head and Michael couldn’t think he just had to--

It felt wet.

The blade felt wet as it wedged up the space between his neck and chin and up and up and it hurt but did it? Michael couldn’t tell now. All he knew was that it was wet and it wasn’t supposed to be there, but it wasn’t sticking through the base of Mom’s chin, so that meant he did something right. Maybe. Michael always tried to do the right thing.

When he could see again, Dad was backing away, tumbling over his feet. 

Michael was dropping to the floor, weightless.

Mom was yelling something, but he couldn’t hear her, which maybe meant the knife was covering his ears, too.

He pulled it out.

The sound returned in full, and the pain, deep and itchy and close and far and all-at-once immediately pulsed through his head and his jaw and behind his eyes and it all still felt wet.

Mom grabbed the knife from his hand, and then Dad was on the floor, too, but his eyes were wide and glazed and it didn't look like he could get back up again.

Michael tried to swallow. He didn't think he did it right. “M- Mom,” he tried to say.

Mom shushed him and began running her fingers through his hair. “You’re okay, _mijo_ ,” she said. “ _Toda esta bien ahora._ ”

He believed her, he thought, even when she put a hand against the base of his chin where it hurt the most. 

Everything was going to be better now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That wraps up this mini-prequel fic! Hope y’all enjoyed, and I look forward to posting the larger work soon!


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